


A Type of Personal Solution

by ineptshieldmaid



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (partial), Crossdressing, Genderfuck, Haircuts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 20:55:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10907283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineptshieldmaid/pseuds/ineptshieldmaid
Summary: ‘Hi,’ Viktor says.‘Your hair,’ Chris says, stupidly.‘I told you,’ Viktor says, voice wobbling. ‘Terrible mistake.’‘Is that… why you’re here?’Viktor just nods.Chris tries to think of anyone else he knows, anyone else he’s evenheardof, who’d take a short-notice international flight because they hated their haircut. He fails, of course, because there is no such person.





	A Type of Personal Solution

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dance_across](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dance_across/gifts).



> Caveats and notes at the end.
> 
> Presented to dance_across with, uh, no good explanation except she was talking to me about Adam Lambert's 'Strut' being an excellent Chris/Viktor song. (Thus the title)

‘I’ve made a terrible mistake.’

Chris stops dead in the middle of the path and gapes in what’s probably a stupid fashion. ‘Viktor?’

‘Yeah,’ Viktor says, like it’s perfectly normal for him to be calling Chris from a Swiss landline. Like it’s perfectly normal for him to be calling Chris at all. Chris gave him his number this past season, when it became clear last year’s hookup was turning into a regular feature, but given international roaming and texting coasts, they’ve exchanged all of about thirty texts (some of them filthy) and two minutes of where-are-you-now-i’m-ditching-this-party type phone calls.

Someone else hurrying from the tram stop elbows Chris off the path. Chris manages to close his jaw.

‘I’ve made a terrible mistake,’ Viktor repeats, again. ‘And I’m, uh. I’m in your city.’

Chris holds his phone away from his ear for a second and checks the display. It’s an 022 number. 

‘Where are you?’ Chris asks, because _Why?_ is a question to be answered after ascertaining that Viktor isn’t lost or stranded. Although, given it’s Viktor, there’s probably very little that Switzerland can do to him that he can’t solve with traveller’s cheques or American Express. 

‘A hotel,’ Viktor says, proving the solve-it-with-currency theory. ‘On the, uh… Rue de Richemont?’

Chris sighs. It’s lucky he knows Geneva fairly well. ‘That’s not in my city, Viktor,’ he says. 

‘It’s not?’ Viktor sounds utterly gutted.

‘I don’t live in Geneva.’ Then, feeling slightly sorry for him in all his beautiful blonde idiocy, Chris adds, ‘it’s not far away, though. I think I can still manage to see you.’

‘I was… when can I see you?’ Viktor asks. ‘I’m here for the weekend,’ he adds.

‘Tomorrow?’

There’s a pained silence on the other end of the line.

‘Viktor. I’ve just come from training, I’m on my way to class, and I’ve got training again tomorrow. But it’s Friday, and off-season, so I’ll be free by midday.’ 

‘Oh,’ Viktor says. Chris wonders, not for the first time, what Viktor _does_ aside from skating. Not studying, or surely the sports gossip sites would have exact details of what and where. Maybe Viktor gets paid enough to wear designer watches and cologne that he can afford to turn up in one of Europe’s most expensive cities on short notice.

‘I can come to you,’ Viktor says, and Chris has a momentary - horrific - vision of Viktor at his parents' dinner table. 

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Chris says, starting up the path toward class. ‘I haven’t got training on Saturday, we’ll go out.’ He’s working on the assumption he’ll be crashing in Viktor’s hotel room, but if not, well, it won’t be the first time he’s caught the pre-dawn train home in the off-season. 

‘Okay,’ Viktor says, still sounding forlorn.

‘Text me the name of your hotel, I’ll text you when I know what train I’m on.’ He pauses for a second before the stairs up to the building entrance, and adds, ‘And Viktor?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Are you okay?’ That sounds silly. ‘I mean, I guess you’re not, if you’ve made a _terrible mistake_. But you’re… not injured or disendorsed or anything, are you?’

Viktor huffs a laugh. ‘No.’

‘Okay.’ Chris does actually want to know what’s wrong with Viktor, but not when he’s already late for class. ‘You can tell me all about it tomorrow, then.’

* * *

All things considered, Chris isn’t entirely surprised when he walks out of the ice rink on Friday and finds Viktor waiting for him. He is, however, extremely surprised by the _state_ of Viktor waiting for him. Namely: he has no hair. Well, maybe he has some hair, but it’s hidden under a truly hideous hat, and must be only regular guy-length. The waist-length braid is gone. 

‘Hi,’ Viktor says.

‘Your hair,’ Chris says, stupidly.

‘I told you,’ Viktor says, voice wobbling. ‘Terrible mistake.’

‘Is that… why you’re here?’ 

Viktor just nods.

Chris tries to think of anyone else he knows, anyone else he’s even _heard_ of, who’d take a short-notice international flight because they hated their haircut. He fails, of course, because there is no such person.

‘You’re a bit weird, you know that?’

Viktor just spreads his palms. Chris takes a moment to spare a thought for his sixteen-year-old self, clutching a rose Viktor had thrown him, blissfully unaware of the walking human disaster Viktor was and still is.

‘Come here, then,’ he says, beckoning Viktor with one hand. He intends it to be a kiss: this might be the world’s weirdest booty call, but it still has all the hallmarks of a booty call. Also, what person in their right mind wouldn’t take advantage of Viktor looking all hesitant and confused like this?

Viktor falls into Chris arms and clings onto him like Chris is a tree root in a river and Viktor’s being swept downstream. He doesn’t give Chris a chance to kiss him, just buries his face in Chris’ shoulder (Chris must have grown, he realises: he might actually be taller than Viktor now. Weird).

‘Holy shit,’ Chris says. ‘You’re really not okay, are you?’

Viktor sort of shakes his head, and clings tighter.

* * *

‘Do you want a drink?’ Chris asks. ‘Tea?’ He glances over at his parents’ liquor cabinet and decides if they complain _they_ can tell him what he should do with the reigning World Champion and Grand Prix Gold Medalist in their living room. Better drinking their booze than fucking on their couch. ‘Something stronger?’

Viktor looks like he really would like a hard drink, but he opts for tea. Chris makes tea, and spares a minute to toss his training gear in the laundry basket.

‘So,’ Chris says, when Viktor still hasn’t said much or explained why the hell he’s here. ‘You really hate your haircut.’ Viktor’s still wearing his hat. ‘It must be really dreadful,’ Chris says, ‘if it’s worse than that hat.’

Viktor looks horrified and whips the hat off. The hair is not terrible. It’s shorter on the sides, but there’s enough of it on the top that it could be played around with. It looks like Viktor opted to slick it back this morning, in what might be a bad imitation of David Beckham, before shoving the ugly hat on.

‘Well, that’s an image change,’ Chris says.

‘Did you,’ Viktor starts, and stops. ‘Was it weird for you? When you cut yours?’

‘A bit,’ Chris says. That had been not last season, but the one before - the one where he started hooking up with Viktor, as a matter of fact. It had been part of his grand plan to convince Angelique to let him choose more _adult_ themes for his routines. The season before he’d tried what he thought was a pretty sexy exhibition skate, only to have it described online as like watching a puppy play at being a big dog. ‘The hardest bit,’ Chris says, laughing, ‘was I used to play with the curls all the time, and I kept sort of grabbing the spikes -’ he demonstrates, pulling the gelled hair over his temple - ‘instead, but it’s not the same.’

Viktor smiles at that, and starts actually drinking his tea instead of clutching it and looking traumatised. 

‘Anyway,’ Chris says, ‘your hair’s fine. I mean, it might not be what you wanted, but you probably just have to learn what to do with it.’ He thinks about that for a second, and then adds, ‘Don’t you have a stylist or something to do that?’

‘My stylist,’ Viktor says, tightly, ‘is fired.’

Well, that might have something to do with it.

‘Did you… not want to cut it?’ Chris asks, gently. 

Viktor’s lips thin even further. ‘It was my idea,’ he says, brusquely, which doesn’t explain what happened to the stylist.

‘It’ll grow out,’ Chris says, a bit helplessly. He knows Viktor is a drama queen, but this seems far beyond even Viktor’s levels of predictable drama.

Viktor just nods.

* * *

‘I can change at your hotel room, right?’ Chris asks. ‘Not that I haven’t worn clubbing outfits on the train before, but it’s still a bit early in the day.’

‘Sure,’ Viktor says, from Chris’ bed. Chris pulls out a pair of leather trousers from his closet, and turns to find Viktor has sprawled right out across the duvet. Chris has to take a moment to calm his inner sixteen-year-old and muster up his best leer.

‘Now that’s the second-most beautiful sight my bed’s ever seen,’ Chris says. Viktor blinks at him in surprise. ‘After me, of course.’

Viktor snorts at that. ‘Your ego knows no bounds, Giacometti.’

‘I haven’t noticed you complaining,’ Chris fires back. ‘What should I put with these?’ He rummages in a drawer and produces a selection of tops. ‘This?’ It’s covered in glitter and he bought it in the ladies’ section of H&M. ‘This?’ Basically fishnets only as a top. ‘Or this?’ Sheer, gold-tinted.

‘Won’t you be cold?’ Viktor asks. Chris shakes his head.

‘What’s a little suffering for beauty?’ he asks.

He expects another quip from Viktor, but Viktor doesn’t make it. He bites his lip instead, like he’s thinking of something.

‘You’d tell me,’ Viktor says, ‘if I looked hideous, wouldn’t you?’

Chris takes a moment before he realises Viktor is _serious_. He drops the clothes on the bed and, after a second’s hesitation, sits down in the small space between them and Viktor’s sprawled form.

‘I can’t imagine you ever hideous,’ he says, because it’s true. ‘But if I thought it was a really bad haircut, yeah, I’d tell you. It’s just a shock. It needs styling, that’s all.’

Viktor just looks at him for a second, and Chris wonders if he’s supposed to kiss him now. If that’s what you do, to prove someone isn’t hideous.

‘Well,’ Viktor says, ‘I’m certainly going to look drab next to you, all I brought was a change of clothes and my regular suit.’

‘Your regular suit is hot as fuck,’ Chris points out.

Then he remembers he and Viktor are the same size, more or less, now, and he can’t help smirking. ‘But I can dress you up if you like,’ he says, and bounces off the bed. ‘How do you feel about gold lamé?’

‘Why on earth do you _have_ this stuff?’ Viktor asks, sitting up and catching the metallic wad of fabric that Chris throws at him. ‘Do you just wear glitter around on your days off?’

‘Sometimes, yeah,’ Chris says. He goes back over to the wardrobe, and pulls out a hanger. ‘Also, I’ve done actual drag.’ The dress is a year old, and Chris has filled out since then: it probably doesn’t fit anymore, and it certainly won’t fit Viktor. But it’s red and there’s a slit up the side of it and Viktor’s eyes go wide when Chris holds it over himself. Suddenly Chris really wishes the place they’re going tonight were the kind of place where a guy could wear a floor-length dress.

‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘I’m not expecting you to dress up, I’m expecting you to admire _me_ dressed up.’ He picks up the sheer thing he was considering before. ‘If you tell me I’m the prettiest princess,’ he says, ‘I’ll buy you a drink.’

‘Pretty, certainly,’ Viktor concedes, ‘but princess is a bit of a stretch for you.’

Chris laughs, and bundles the top up with his leathers. ‘Of course,’ he says, ‘that’s more your style, isn’t it?’

‘It was, yeah,’ Viktor says, heavy.

‘Awww, Viktor,’ Chris says, and at this point he thinks he’s joking. ‘You can still be the prettiest princess, a little haircut isn’t going to stop that.’

Viktor looks like someone’s punched him in the gut. ‘You… think so?’ he asks. 

‘Of course,’ Chris says, and in a breath he’s across the room, pulling the stupid gold thing out of Viktor’s hands. ‘No,’ he says, looking at it, ‘this is all wrong.’ He looks around him, and back to Viktor, who’s wide-eyed on the edge of Chris’ bed. Chris’s mind is running through every item in his wardrobe - and a few in his mother’s - but he takes a moment to crowd up closer to Viktor, knees on either side of Viktor’s thighs. He runs his fingers through Viktor’s newly-short hair.

‘I can do something with this,’ he says, and it’s only a little bit of a boast. ‘Will you let me do you up, cheri? Is that what you want?’

Viktor just nods. If he’s a bare shred from starting to cry, Chris doesn’t remark on it.

* * *

Viktor’s hotel room ends up looking like a bomb hit it. There’s a fair few of Chris’ clothes in it, and all of Chris’ makeup collection, but the majority of the space is taken up by the results of Viktor’s shopping spree. After a few minutes rich-person horror, Viktor had adapted to H&M like teenagers to new pop bands. And then, because he _is_ rich, he’d insisted on dropping his purchases in the hotel and crossing the lake in search of accessories more befitting his station in life. Chris managed to keep him away from the diamonds, but Viktor is now the proud owner of a pair of gold sandals (heels, despite all of the great things they’d do for his ass, having been pronounced an ankle injury waiting to happen), gold-painted toes to match, and snaky green clip-on earrings.

‘Go on,’ Chris says, from the bed. He’s half-dressed, having got so far as removing his jeans and shirt before getting distracted by Viktor’s efforts to try on every single item he’d bought. ‘Strut your stuff.’ 

Viktor, in tight grey jeans (one of the few items in that afternoon’s shopping spree purchased from the men’s section) and a clinging green velvet top, sashays across the room. 

‘You are very,’ Chris says, ‘very fucking pretty.’

Viktor stops in front of the mirror, regarding himself critically. ‘I don’t look like a girl,’ he says.

‘Were you trying to?’

‘Not really, no,’ Viktor says. ‘Are you?’

‘Not unless I’m doing drag,’ Chris says. ‘Well, no, not really even then. This,’ he gets up and starts searching for his leathers. ‘This isn’t a costume, not even the way a skating costume is. This is… me. A version of me. With even more glitter, and sometimes girl’s clothes.’

Viktor picks up the sheer gold halter Chris has brought for himself, and holds it out. He smiles, and lets his eyes linger on Chris’ hips, his abs, his chest. 

‘I can see that,’ he says.

Chris takes the top, and pulls it over his head, barely breaking eye contact as he does. ‘Like it?’ he asks. Viktor’s face pulls up into a smile. Chris catches sight of his leathers, underneath a diaphanous scarf which Viktor had insisted on buying him as a thank-you for his assistance in retail therapy. 

He makes sure Viktor has a good view of his ass while he bends down to pick them up. Viktor gazes at him avidly while he hauls them on, and Chris wonders why he never thought of doing a _reverse_ strip tease before.

‘Just so you know,’ Viktor says, ‘I’m already imagining taking those off you.’

Chris steps up into his space, slipping fingers under Viktor’s top, tracing the flat of his abdomen and the sharp jut of his hipbones. ‘Likewise,’ he says. He kisses Viktor’s lips, just a quick peck, and reaches up to run his fingers through Viktor’s hair. Viktor manages not to stiffen or flinch when Chris touches it, so Chris tugs on it, and Viktor makes a low noise somewhere between a whimper and a moan. ‘Yeah,’ Chris says, ‘that still works.’

‘I didn’t,’ Viktor says. ‘I thought it might not.’

Chris kisses him again, and then tugs him toward the bathroom. ‘Let me pretty you up, you’ll see.’

* * *

They are the prettiest fucking people at the party, and they both know it. Chris probably does know people here - it’s down in the warehouse district, and half the student population of both Geneva and Lausanne is probably here - but he’s more interested in the gaze of strangers tonight. He and Viktor have their hands all over each other, and the eyes of the whole damn room on them.

At one point, they end up with a girl sandwiched between them, kissing each other over her shoulder.

‘This is the best thing that ever happened to me!’ the girl says, and Chris likes her, likes her unbounded enthusiasm, so he kisses her too. 

Later Chris goes to get drinks, and when he comes back, the girl is gone and some guy has his hand on Viktor’s hip and is saying something in his ear. Viktor reaches out and grabs Chris’s hand, and the guy lets go, giving Chris a resentful of look.

‘A bientôt, _chérie_ ,’ the man says, to Viktor. The feminine inflection on it is probably supposed to be malicious but Viktor flushes prettily and Chris has a whole new set of ideas for when they get somewhere quiet enough to hear each other speak.

In the pre-dawn twilight they walk back up the river and across the lake to Viktor’s hotel. They walk arm-in-arm, and there’s no one to see them, and no one would recognise Viktor even if someone did see them. Chris pushes him up against the railings of the bridge and kisses the hell out of him.

* * *

The next morning, Viktor sits up and takes one look at himself in the mirror and says, ‘Fuck.’

‘Don’t tell me you’ve never woken up in yesterday’s makeup before,’ Chris says. 

Viktor touches his hair, which is standing on end. ‘It never did this in the braid,’ he says.

‘Nothing a bit of water won’t fix,’ Chris tells him. Viktor looks like he might make a dash for the bathroom, so Chris winds his arms around him and drags him back down. ‘Kiss me first, pretty.’

‘I don’t feel pretty,’ Viktor admits, breath tickling Chris’ cheek. ‘I don’t feel… I look wrong.’

Chris kisses him, really kisses him properly, morning breath be damned. 

‘It’ll be easier when you get the cake off your face,’ he says. Viktor shakes his head, and Chris knows it’s not just that. He knows. He’s not sure _why_ it’s a problem, but it is. Still. It will be easier.

Chris ends up pulling Viktor back into the bathroom, and cleaning the makeup off his face himself. Then his own, and then they might as well shower. Viktor gets on his knees and Chris tangles his fingers in the too-short hair and tells him how very, very pretty he looks with Chris’ dick in his mouth. 

Maybe it helps. Maybe it doesn’t. Either way, Chris comes so hard he can barely stay upright.

* * *

_The new Viktor Nikiforov_ is full of surprises, according to the figure skating press. Short hair, new, more assertive routines. More _masculine_. Some of them suggest he’s doing it to distance himself from Christophe Giacometti, whose flamboyance is propelling him onto the podium more often than not now. Some of them suggest this is the real Viktor, that the ethereal creature who’d seduced so many was a construct of his coaches that he has finally outgrown.

The new Viktor Nikiforov lets himself into Christophe Giacometti’s room after the Grand Prix Final free skate, and peels off his impeccable suit. The new Viktor Nikiforov is wearing silk panties. Silk panties that, much to Chris’ delight, match the colour of the new Viktor Nikiforov’s free skate costume perfectly.

The new Viktor Nikiforov is on a winning streak that will lead him to five consecutive World Championships, and the new Viktor Nikiforov is very, very fucking pretty.

**Author's Note:**

> Caveats lectors: this is about genderfuck / partial crossdressing, not about being trans (I mean, your mileage may vary: I can see how you might read Viktor as some flavour of enby here, but that's not my primary aim). There is some discussion of drag, though, so if you never want to encounter that, this is not the fic for you. As far as I know there are no other common hot buttons here, but as usual, I'm not a wizard or a mind-reader, so I cannot predict everyone's squicks and triggers. Read at your own risk, etc.
> 
> Comments policy: be nice. Particularly, let's not end up with attacks of slut-shaming, folks, that's not my idea of fun.


End file.
